The Death of Me
by 0'EmeraldEyes'0
Summary: Racetrack grows up to find himself involved with the Italian mafia: not a life he has consciously chosen, but not one which he can easily escape. Now the shadow of a past long forgotten returns: will it mean Race's salvation or his ruin?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies (you've heard me say that many times), and I don't own the Mafia (I doubt you've _ever_ heard anyone say that, lol).**

_Author's Note: I know I haven't posted anything newsies in a while, but I was waiting for inspiration to come. And come it has, lol. I watched a show on the History channel the other day (best channel ever, shut up) and it was on real life godfathers. I never knew before watching this program that I had a subconscious fascination with the Mafia, lol, and when I was watching they were talking about this one guy and I saw the picture and heard his story and was like, "Shit, that is Racetrack Higgins". So don't laugh - I actually have, what I believe to be, a pretty good background for this story. I haven't done any in depth reseach into the Mafia or anything, but that's okay because this is fanfiction and not a novel, hence if I get one or two facts a little off, please go easy on me. So anyhow, this takes place about ten years after the strike. I picture Race being about twenty-five or twenty-six. PS - I know the high point of the mafia was during Prohibition, but it was alive and well even before the turn of the century - that I made sure of, lol, I would not write something completely false. So please, this is different, and I understand that, but it's just an idea, and I promise it'll hold your attention. Though, with that being said, please tell me if you absolutely hate it, lol._

The shot fired, straight and true. There was barely enough time to appreciate it's precision before everyone's vision was overtaken by the color red. Blood spurted everywhere: it spilled onto the floor, splattered the walls, and stained Racetrack's shirt.

For a moment the body twitched, but only for a moment. The brain was a sure thing – you hit someone there, and they're gone. Though as many times as Race had seen it done, it never failed to amaze him how much of the sticky scarlet liquid a human skull actually contained …

"Good hit, eh Tony? Thought he'd give more fight then he did. Sorta takes all the fun outta a job …" Sal frowned, but couldn't manage to keep the gleam out of his eye that always comes with a job well done.

Tony nodded vaguely – still wondering at how Sal had managed to shoot someone square in the temple when they were running and ducking for their life across a dark alleyway.

"Sonny" Sal Santoro was, if Race was forced to admit it, probably his best friend. The guy had taken him in and shown him the ropes at a time when "the ropes" weren't easy to figure out on your own. In fact, if you weren't careful you could get caught up in the ropes and hang yourself.

Sal had been involved with the New York City mafia since he was at least thirteen years old (his uncle had been a big-timer from Sicily who'd made it even bigger in America). That's in fact where Sal had adopted the nickname "Sonny": he started working for and with six foot, two hundred pound Italian men at a time when he hadn't even hit puberty. Despite the fact that "Sonny" had long since grown out of his nickname he kept it and actually demanded that people call him by it, saying that everyone who was anyone in the Mafia had a nickname. Which was technically true, and even though Sal wasn't really a big shot, his uncle had been, and so he demanded respect. Surprisingly enough, he got it. Race figured it was because the guy was harmless.

Race laughed at himself for this thought – Sal shoots a man in the head and Race calls him harmless…

But it was true. As far as the bosses were concerned, Sal wasn't a threat. The guy followed orders and never complained. Not to mention, he was loyal as a dog – which was, surprisingly enough, quite a valued personality trait among Mafia syndicates.

Race was watching Sal clean out his targets' pockets. The man, a Mr. Paulie Spero, had been a top dog in a rival gang headed by Big Lou Graziano. Unfortunately, Big Lou found a new favorite and Paulie got jealous. He went to Sal and Race's boss: Vincent "Vinny" Milano.

Now, the thing that Vinny hates the most is a traitor. Everybody knows it. Everybody, apparently, except Paulie Spero. Vinny kept Paulie around a few days, let him feel important, then gave Sal the order to bump him on account of Paulie's betrayal, even if it was the betrayal of Vinny's own arch rival.

In Race's opinion, Paulie was one of the stupidest men he knew. The guy was sure to be bumped sooner or later – he was unintelligent and overconfident, two of the worst possible things to be when dealing with the kind of men he dealt with everyday. Even Sal was smarter than Paulie, and Sal really wasn't all that smart.

"Heya, Tony, quit starin' holes in him - your laser eyes ain't doin' nothin', he's already dead. Sheesh."

Race chuckled and tread carefully over to where Sal was crouched, holding out a bag in which to carry whatever they happened to get off Paulie. He didn't like being present for jobs – he hated the blood. Usually he was just the driver. Unlike Sal, Race didn't have any nickname. He was just Tony Higgins (not even Racetrack anymore, he had left that in his past, and no one, not even Sal, knew that that had once been the only name by which he was known). But Vinny kept him around because he was Sal's friend, and Vinny liked Sal. Vinny also liked Race. He thought the kid was golden – he was honest (or as honest as you can be in the Mafia), he was loyal, he was pretty intelligent in his own regard, and he had a witty sense of humor that the boss never got tired of. One of Vinny's favorite things was to sit down with a stiff drink after a long day and listen to Sal and Race prattle on about unimportant things - Race throwing in a clever remark every now and again, causing even the eyes of Vinny Milano (one who didn't often smile) to crinkle up in an appreciative chuckle.

"We can nevah be too shoah with ya shootin', can we Sal?" Race shot back with a grin. "Anyhow, don't be makin' cracks about me eyes, huh? Ya jus' jealous." Race batted long brown lashes in Sal's direction.

Sal chuckled, finished picking what he could off Paulie's figure and stepped back, wiping his hands on his pants. "Well that's that then, yeah?"

"Shouldn't we get rid a' da body?" Race asked uncomfortably. That was another thing he hated – just leaving these people out in the streets – it didn't matter who they were. That kinda death's no good for anyone.

"Nah, boss said just tah leave the stiff."

Race nodded and followed Sal back to the car. Climbing in the driver's side, Race couldn't help but take one last glance in Paulie's direction. The guy had been scum, no doubt about it – interested only in his own gain and nothing more – but it still made Race sick every job he went to. And Paulie was no exception.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not mine. : (**

_Author's Note: Chapter two was a long time in coming, I understand. But I didn't think I wanted to continue with this story. It was a bust the first time around. Maybe I'll grab a few more people's interest with this chapter, I guess we'll see. Anyhow, I can't know what you guys are thinking without feedback, so please review!_

Next morning Race was due to see his boss. It was a dreary, overcast day with the clouds hanging low in the sky and the breeze just enough to leave you chilled. Leaving his shabby apartment early, he found Sal already sitting on the steps outside. The man was smoking a cheap cigarette in one hand – the other was busy tapping out a jazz rhythm on his knee. "Heya Tony," he greeted.

Race chuckled. "If I didn't know bettah I'd say ya'd been out on me front porch all night, Sal. Doncha nevah sleep?"

"Not if I can help it," Sal retorted. "Too much work tah get done - an' when I ain't workin' I'm drinkin' – who's got time fah sleep?"

Race smiled, helped Sal up, and the two began the short walk. "Can't blame ya, pal. Don't sleep much meself."

"Why's that?"

Race shrugged. "Nightmares mostly." And it was true, though Sal didn't push the matter. He was well aware that his friend's past was not something which he liked to discuss, and so he just assumed it was the cause of the nightmares in question.

The walk to Vinny's "office" was not far. The boss's brother owned a club just a few blocks from Tony's place and gave the basement over to Vinny to conduct his business in. When they arrived they headed straight to the back and down the concrete stairs to the heavy deadbolted door. Sal knocked rapidly five times and stood back. A moment later the door swung open and a man by the name of Rocco stood there. He was Vinny's bodyguard – he never left the man's side. Race wouldn't have been surprised if the two men slept in the same bed.

Rocco was a larger man than Race had ever seen before – easily seven foot tall with biceps the size of Race's head.

"How's it goin', Rocco?" Sal asked casually as the big man let them through. Rocco neither answered nor returned Sal's greeting.

The basement was large with concrete floors and support beams. The perfectly nondescript and bleak feel for a mafia boss's headquarters. Vinny was sitting across the room behind a large desk, in his usual flawless suit. He was a tall man, but a slim one, retaining his form even in middle age. He had sleek black hair and a bald spot, with brown eyes which commanded respect. Race was astounded time after time by how such an average looking man could frighten so many people … including Race himself. But he was well spoken with just the hint of an Italian accent and he was good to those who were loyal to him.

"Boys," he greeted with a nod, his palms spread in front of him in a gesture of welcome, "how are we this morning?"

Race and Sal both nodded their greetings as they sat down on the opposite side of Vinny's desk. "Good, sir," Sal said cheerfully, "And yaself?"

Vinny nodded his head from side to side, "Not bad – we've had better days."

Sal raised an eyebrow in inquisition, but Vinny said, "First things first – how did we do last night, Sal?"

That was one thing about Vinny which amused Race to no end – the man constantly used "we" even if he himself was not involved in the group of which he was speaking.

Sal nodded seriously, "Very good, sir. Ole Paulie's as dead as a doornail."

Vinny nodded casually and then said, "Good man, Sal. I've got another job for you this morning, though this one might be a bit more complicated. There's a kid I might need you to hit, he's been giving me some trouble down at Maloney's."

Maloney's was an Irish Pub a few streets over where the city's best prize fighters gathered every Friday night. Many of the regulars put money on the fights, and Vinny was known to fix them in his favor.

"Good as dead he is, sir." Sal assured with a wink. Race just sat by quiet, his hands folded serenely, watching his lap. Two jobs, back to back? It was gonna be a long night.

Vinny chuckled to himself. "Always overeager, aren't we, Sal? But I don't need him hit just yet, understand. I need you to tail him for tonight first." Sal watched Vinny speculatively for a moment, when the boss continued with his elbows on the desk and his fingers steepled. "Here's the deal – the kid's new, pretty young. But he's good – I've never seen anything like him. He's won every fight he's been in since he started a month ago. Naturally, he sparked my curiosity. So much so that I approached the kid myself with a golden offer. 'Lose this Friday's fight', I told him, 'And there's five hundred dollars in it for you'."

Race looked up for the first time. Five hundred dollars was a lot of money. For Vinny to offer the kid that much meant that the kid was _so_ good everyone in Maloney's was already putting money on him, and if Vinny bet against him on a fixed fight, the return would be pretty damn high and well worth it for the boss.

Vinny noticed Race's sudden interest in the conversation and nodded once in his direction to quell his disbelief. "Five hundred dollars," he confirmed. "But, and fuck me, but the kid turned me down."

This, even more than the five hundred dollars, shocked Race. He didn't think Vinny had ever heard the word "no" since birth.

"Why'd he do dat?" Race asked with a raised eyebrow in genuine curiosity.

Vinny shrugged, completely empathetic to Race's bewilderment. "You tell me, Tony my boy, you tell me. So the kid turns me down, pretty rudely if I might add. And I start thinking about it, and I think he might already be in league with Big Lou."

So there it was – it was about competition. Race knew that Vinny would not have the kid hit just for his hurt pride at having been turned down. He was a fair man, if a hard one. But the fights at Maloney's were Vinny's territory and if Big Lou was encroaching upon that knowingly it could mean war between the two bosses – all over some insignificant boxer.

Race nodded understandingly, and Vinny continued. "There's no reason for this kid to turn down my offer – if he's prize fighting, he's obviously in need of the money, so why turn down five hundred dollars? Because he's already gotten a better offer, that's why. Now what I need from you boys right now is just to follow the kid tonight to his fight. Tonight we'll find out if he's in league with Big Lou. If he is, come back and see me and we'll have to take care of him, you got that Sal?"

Sal nodded, with a smile suddenly – he was always happier when there was a job to be done. Vinny took the smile as confirmation and nodded decisively. "Good," he declared. "Now, you'll go tonight. The kid's fighting that Italian, my old favorite, you remember him – what's his name, Sal?"

"Bruce, sir."

Bruce was a fighter from the Bronx who was a regular at Maloney's. The guy was large, but he was only an average fighter. What he did have, however, was showmanship. He made every fight a spectacle to be seen, and for that, he was known as one of the best prize fighters in town. Vinny had an affinity for the ring and loved watching Bruce fight – never fixing any of them for the sole reason that the man was the nephew of a friend of his.

"Well if this kid's as good as they say, then Bruce hasn't got a chance," Sal commented.

Vinny nodded, knowing Sal wasn't the smartest of his employees. "So what does that let us know, Sal? If he loses the fight – then he's with Big Lou for sure."

"So," Sal reasoned, "if he loses the fight, you want us to hit him?"

Vinny chuckled. "That's right, Sal."

Sal's smile was back.

"You boys will report back to me tonight after the fight if he wins, after the hit if he loses, understand?"

Sal nodded and Race nodded. Both got up to leave, but Vinny nodded his head in Race's direction. "If you could stay for a moment, son, I'd like to have a word."

Race nodded and Sal clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll be down gettin' lunch when ya through."

Vinny waited until Rocco had closed the door behind Sal to resume his seat. Race looked up expectantly. He had never been alone with the boss before – he and Sal always had been a team, never apart. It was a curious thing indeed that Vinny had asked him to stay alone.

"Tony," Vinny began seriously, "I wanted to talk to you about tonight."

Race raised an eyebrow.

"I've been watching you, you know. And you're a smart kid."

Race was confused. "Thank you, sir …"

"I think you could really be something, Tony, and I want you to know that. Tonight is a much bigger job than I'd usually hand over to Sal – if Big Lou really is dealing with this kid, it'll mean a lot more than just the hit of one Irish prize fighter. I'm putting you in charge of this job, and if all goes well, it'll mean big things for you – do you understand what I'm saying?"

Race nodded. Of course he did – it meant that if he didn't fuck up tonight, and got Vinny the information he wanted, he had the chance to be a big shot. One of Vinny's top men – the kind who got to wear suits instead of dirty vests, smoke expensive Cuban cigars instead of cheap cigarettes, and the kind who were considered important merely because the boss thought of them as such. However … Race had never really wanted that for himself. Hell, he'd joined up under Vinny just to have something to do with his time to try and forget about his past. The money wasn't bad either. But to be a big shot? That would mean much more than petty hits after midnight…

"It's something to think about," Vinny reasoned. "I like you, Tony. You're a solid kid, and I wouldn't mind even having you as my right hand one day. You just make sure everything goes according to plan tonight and I'll make sure you're taken care of."

Tony nodded, standing abruptly. "Thank you sir," he said, eager to leave as soon as possible.

Vinny stood also. The two men shook hands and Vinny watched Race as he left the basement, just as introverted and secretive as he had always been.

Vinny sat back in his chair and turned his head in Rocco's direction. "What was the kid's name, again? Irish, isn't he?"

Rocco stood straight with his hands clasped behind his back, "Yes, Irish sir. The name's Conlin."

Vinny stretched out in his chair. "Conlin," he repeated. "Quite a bit of trouble over a dirty Mick prize fighter."


End file.
